


The Ghosts

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: AU, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Past Rape/Non-con, Psychotherapy, Suicide Attempt, beatings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-04 01:24:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14581875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: When Neal is sent back to prison, he finds his life unbearable because of his reputation as an FBI informant. He decides to take matters into his own hands to change his dire situation. That decision entails a desperate attempt to escape by any means, and it has frightening consequences.





	1. A Desperate Act

**Author's Note:**

> I have played fast and loose with the timeline in this story. Neal’s re-incarceration doesn’t occur when it did in the actual White Collar series. It happens long after Peter and Neal have been partners. I have also added the fictional fact that Neal’s mother has died at some point in the past.

They came to him at night with sorrowful little smiles and ethereal beckoning arms—his mother, Ellen, Kate, even Rebecca Lowe. They whispered in his ear and told him to just let go and come to them. They were waiting, and it would be so much better. Neal agreed that anything would be better than stagnating in this claustrophobic jail cell or agonizing in the infirmary after the other convicts had meted out their form of justice to a snitch. This time around in Sing Sing was torture. A recaptured felon endured a form of hell on earth. He had been systematically ambushed and beaten, but the worst horrors to endure were the gruesome rapes. Neal knew he wouldn’t survive his long prison sentence.

Bobby, the obese and sympathetic night guard who patrolled Neal's cell block, recognized the signs. He knew the exact minute that the traumatized young man had given up. Going out on a limb, the worried man had placed a call to the city, actually to Peter Burke personally. After introducing himself to the FBI agent whom he knew had worked with Neal in the past, the concerned guard pled his case.

"You've got to get that boy out of here, Agent Burke," he said emphatically. "He's not going to last much longer. I've seen this situation before and it's bleak. If you can't help him, Neal may take things into his own hands and escape, but it's not going to be out the front door like before."

Peter was also worried about his former partner and had been doing everything in his power to get Justice on board with releasing Neal into his custody once again. He told Bobby that much.

"Well, maybe you should push a little harder, Agent Burke, before Neal reaches the point of no return."

And that's exactly what happened one night after the alluring sirens’ sweet voices convinced him to join them. Neal had methodically torn his bed covering into thin strips. He had then fashioned a noose which he placed around his neck after tediously managing to thread it through the grillwork of a highly placed vent near the ceiling. It was just a matter of sinking down and letting gravity do its job. And it would have sufficed if a hyper-vigilant Bobby hadn't decided to make an extra walk-through during his rounds. Just as the dark spots dancing before Neal's eyes had become little white starbursts of light heralding unconsciousness from hypoxia, Neal felt himself being lifted by strong, massive arms. That's all he recalled until he awoke in the now familiar infirmary with Peter Burke staring down at him.

Peter somehow managed to look distressed and angry and sad, all at the same time, and that confused the unsuccessful suicidal inmate.

“Peter, why are you here?” Neal managed to rasp out past his swollen throat.

“How can you even ask that question, Neal?” Peter hissed in frustration. “You tried to kill yourself, Buddy, and that’s definitely not the Neal that I know.”

“Well, that guy is not here anymore. He’s gone forever,” the young man whispered and then turned his head away.

“Neal, you’ve never been a quitter,” Peter insisted.

“That just shows how much you know, Peter, and it isn’t much,” Neal taunted without looking Peter in the eye. “People change—I’ve changed, so there you have it from the horse’s mouth. Now, please go away—go back to your comfortable and stable little life before I became a blip on your radar and complicated things.”

Instead of leaving, Peter pulled up a chair. “Yeah, Neal, you complicated my life in a lot of ways, but I complicated yours as well. Working with me has put a bull’s eye on your back. I’m going to get you out of here, I swear, just hold on a bit longer. I’ve spoken to the warden and he’s agreed to place you in solitary away from all the menacing thugs who are hell-bent on hurting you. Now, please promise me that you won’t try to inflict anymore harm on yourself.”

When Neal refused to answer, Peter let him be and left the prison. The single-minded and apprehensive man set out on a dire humanitarian mission.

~~~~~~~~~~

Just as Peter had predicted, Neal was placed in solitary with just the clothes on his back. The harsh overhead fluorescent lights stayed on continuously, but he resolutely placed an arm over his closed eyes and slept the hours away. Sometimes almost an entire day passed with only his ghosts for company. He had no interest in the cardboard trays that they shoved through the slot in the door. All the food was on paper plates with not a utensil in sight. Neal just toyed with the finger foods of sandwiches and chips and spurned the occasional paper cups containing soup. He was slowly being whittled away to skin and bones. Bobby was the only live person who came to visit. He usually appeared bearing gifts—generous squares of his wife’s homemade cornbread and crunchy oatmeal cookies neatly wrapped in old-fashioned waxed paper.

“C’mon, man, ya gotta eat to keep your strength up. Peter Burke told me he’s making some headway with getting you out of here.”

Neal just smiled like he possessed some deep, dark secret that he wasn’t willing to share with anyone but his ghosts. That just made Bobby worry all the more. The clock was ticking in Neal’s head and it was close to zero hour. One way or the other, he was going to join the women from his past. That was his mantra as he rolled the cornbread between his fingers until it was reduced to fine crumbs. The cookies met the same fate.

Then one day, a nebulous one since Neal had lost all concept of time, it wasn’t Bobby who came to call. It was a stern-looking Peter instead. He had one Byron Ellington’s vintage suits draped over his arm and a bag containing underwear, shoes, and a new tracking anklet in the other.

“A guard is going to come and take you to the showers, Neal. You’re going to clean up and put on these clothes. Then we are returning to New York—to my house in Brooklyn. That’s going to be home for you from now on. Tomorrow, you and I are going to the Bureau to take up where we left off. No arguments, no dragging your heels. It’s a done deal. I can only hope that you won’t make me regret this by walking in front of a bus on my watch or traumatizing El by attempting to kill yourself in our home.”

Neal had stared at Peter blandly, barely lifting an eyebrow at that last admonition. So, he was still going to be a prisoner, just in a different environment, and he wasn’t sure that he even cared anymore until Peter laid out the last dictum.

“Part of the arrangement is that you will also be meeting twice a week with a psychiatrist.”

“That would be a colossal waste of time, Peter. I’m not insane,” Neal snapped.

“Maybe not crazy, but rather determined to escape in your own way. My deal is non-negotiable, Buddy. No ‘take it or leave it’ is involved. You _will_ be seeing a therapist for as long as it takes to get your head on straight!”

~~~~~~~~~~

Elizabeth Burke was shocked by Neal’s fragile appearance when she first saw him come through the door. He was just a shadow of himself in so many ways. Of course, he was polite, as always, but his smile lacked that teasing quality that was so endearing. He initially allowed her to encircle his torso in a warm hug, and that familiar gesture drove home the gaunt reality under the vintage suit. He didn’t speak much during dinner, except to compliment El on the food. If Elizabeth had to analyze his demeanor, she would say that Neal was physically sitting at her dining table, but that vision was a holograph because the real Neal wasn’t there.

That assessment pretty much described the reaction of Peter’s team at the Bureau the next morning. They were shocked and not quite sure how to handle the situation.

“Good to see you back, Caffrey,” Jones said gruffly as he gave Neal a quick handshake and then let his eyes roam elsewhere.

Diana tried to appear more natural in her greeting. “Hey, Caffrey, it’s about time you got your butt back here to liven this place up. It’s been a bit dull without you!” she declared as she punched him playfully on the arm.

After a brainstorming meeting in the conference room regarding an embezzlement case, Hughes had his own concerns that he voiced to Peter.

“Caffrey looks like a walking zombie! He had nothing to add at the briefing, and I’m not sure that he was even listening. You’re walking on thin ice with this one, Peter. If Caffrey doesn’t get on board and appear invested, Justice may reverse their decision because they won’t consider him to be an asset.”

Peter became angry—not with Reese Hughes, but rather with the callous and heartless “system.”

“The ‘system’ is made up of human beings, Reese, who make life and death decisions regarding other human beings. Flesh and blood men shouldn’t be the sum of little tick marks on a piece of paper. According to the lofty powers at Justice, Neal must produce or else the almighty ‘system’ will blithely throw him away to become collateral damage. When did a government made up of intelligent people become so cruel and hardhearted?”

Hughes sighed. He was not unsympathetic. “Do what you can to get Caffrey back on track, Peter. You can only cover for him for so long before he has to pay the piper.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter didn’t want to put pressure on his returning CI because he suspected that might be counter-productive. Neal, in any form, could be stubborn. He hoped that the sessions with the psychiatrist might help break through the wall the young man had erected around himself.

Wednesday evening was the first appointment with the shrink. Peter sat beside a taciturn Neal in a small, comfortable waiting room. It was eerily quiet in the space with neither man saying a word until the door to the adjoining office opened and an older, pleasant-faced woman stepped out. She immediately introduced herself as Dr. Helen Bozak, and, with an airy wave of her hand and a warm smile, invited Neal into her inner sanctum. The physician’s office was cozy—pictures of mountains and oceans on the walls and several upholstered club chairs facing each other over a polished wooden coffee table holding a tiny purple African violet in a clay pot. There was neither a desk nor a couch in sight. Dr. Bozak beckoned to one of the seats and then took her own opposite her patient. She demurely folded her hands and began to speak in a soft voice.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Neal,” she began. Then she asked, “Would it be agreeable to you if I called you by your first name? That may make the conversations during our sessions seem more natural.”

Neal simply shrugged indifferently and then began the longest speech that he had made in months.

“I think, Doctor, that we should get some things out there before we go any further. I do _not_ want to be here. I am _not_ going to discuss my childhood, my mother or my father, or tell you about my sex life. Actually, I am not going to be talking to you at all during your 45-minute sessions. That frees you up to do whatever—read a book, listen to music, or even start knitting a sweater. Your secret will be safe with me while we pretend to embark on a safari into my head. So, the government will still pay your fee for as long as you draw this out, or until you finish that sweater.”

Dr. Bozak didn’t appear to be shocked or offended. She merely raised her eyebrows and asked, “Why would you assume that I am being paid by the government, Neal?”

Suddenly, Neal was on uneven footing. “Well, surely you aren’t doing this out of the goodness of your heart, Doctor.”

The physician smiled. “No, Neal, I’m not that altruistic, and the members of the AMA usually don’t render their services ‘pro bono’ like some lawyers. I will be compensated whether we make any progress or not.”

When Neal suddenly frowned and telegraphed a question with his eyes, she calmly responded. “According to the information in your file,” she said as she made a slight gesture to the manila folder on the coffee table, “you are a very intelligent man.  I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Now, are you still certain that you want to waste your benefactor’s hard-earned money by being stubborn and uncooperative?”

Neal narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest in a classic self-protective stance. When he didn’t utter a word, the psychiatrist took the initiative.

“Why don’t we start with a word that you just used while speaking to me—‘ _pretend_.’ I think that you have been pretending most of your life, Neal.”

Neal shrugged his shoulders again. “Well, if you’ve read that file, then you know I’ve had a lot of aliases and alter-egos during my illustrious career. That’s not some deep, dark secret.”

“Of course not,” Dr. Bozak agreed. “However, I suspect that pretending has become second nature to you, like a fallback position or a failsafe when you feel threatened.  In fact, I think this whole current hostility thing towards me is just a bit of pretending. It’s a comfortable façade that you can use to try to keep me at arm’s length. Tell me why I represent a threat, Neal? Tell me about the frightened person who really resides in your head when you look in a mirror. I’m wagering that you are incapable of recognizing that person right now. That’s why I believe that these sessions are necessary. You certainly didn’t feel safe while you were in prison. You need to find the real you and understand him before you can make him feel safe now.”

“I’m not going to talk about prison!” Neal said adamantly.

“I’ll take whatever I can get,” the therapist said serenely. “Now, shall we start again? Welcome, Neal, my name is Dr. Helen Bozak, and I’m very pleased to meet you.”

And so, it began.


	2. Seeing the Light

Neal knew that he didn’t have an option regarding the psychiatric appointments, but he wasn’t ready to capitulate. He dug his heels in and was prepared to be confrontational in an attempt to gain the upper hand and assert some control during his “therapy.” The first words out of his mouth at the onset of the next session with his therapist were strident and decisive.

“I’m not crazy, Doctor, so I’m not going to take any antipsychotics or tranquilizers! If that’s your plan, just forget that notion right now.”

“Are you having any trouble sleeping at night?” Dr. Bozak asked gently.

“Nope,” Neal answered flippantly. He certainly was not going to tell her of the post-traumatic flashbacks when he felt himself being held down and ripped apart by sneering, sweaty men with bad breath, hard hands, and even harder penises. Those episodes had him surging awake in a cold sweat gasping for air. Returning to sleep was almost impossible after that.

Dr. Bozak was skeptical of Neal’s curt answer, somehow sensing the untruth. However, she was not yet ready to challenge her patient this early in their new relationship.

“Well, then I suppose that I would advocate a multivitamin, protein supplements, and exercise as your therapeutic regimen,” she answered. “Exercise will release endorphins which are very beneficial to one’s mental health. As for being ‘crazy,’ I think you are quite sane and competent. I believe the heart of your problem is sublimated anger, Neal. We have to bring that to the surface and explore its ramifications before you can move on.”

“I thought you’d tag me with a diagnosis of depression,” Neal taunted. “I’m not mad at anybody.”

The therapist smiled in that non-judgmental way that she managed with remarkable success. “Sometimes people do not even realize that they _are_ angry. Anger is an insidious emotion that can remain dormant for years. It can be fostered by many things like feelings of betrayal, helplessness, or loss of control in one’s life. Your task during our sessions is to drag those feelings out of the dark. Things sometimes look less overwhelming and scary in the light.”

Neal continued to look less than cooperative as he wrapped himself in complete denial.

“One step at a time, young man,” Dr. Bozak continued. “We’ll move along slow and easy. It took many years for you to become the person that you are, so a few 45-minute sessions aren’t going to let me peak at Zorro behind his mask. I have the patience of a saint, so I’ll wait.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter was patient, as well, sitting twice a week in the outer waiting room with a crossword puzzle book. He only asked if Neal liked Dr. Bozak, never about what was being discussed behind closed doors. He could only hope that there had been some progress.

“She’s okay,” was all that Neal would admit. He never brought up the subject of Peter footing the bills for his therapy. Both men found themselves walking on eggshells during their interactions, and it was an uncomfortable situation, miles beyond their once close dynamic.

However, as the days wended on, Neal began to eat better and was regaining some of the lost pounds. Peter accompanied him to a nearby YMCA twice a week when he didn’t have sessions so that he could swim in the facility’s lap pool. Gliding through the water with just his breathing and his heartbeat in his ears was soothing for Neal. He didn’t have to think; he could just “be.” While executing repetitious strokes, he could escape his circumstances for a brief interlude and just exist in the moment without someone watching, probing, or judging. However, that was exactly the environment at the FBI Bureau. So, since he owed Peter, Neal put forth some effort to appear productive at work.

After some time had passed, Hughes had another discussion with Peter. “Although Caffrey seems more motivated, you can’t keep him on the bench forever, Peter. There have been many recent opportunities for him to be imbedded in an operation, but you’ve been dragging your feet. If he’s going to continue being part of this team, then you have to utilize his talents.”

Peter merely nodded and returned to his office. He couldn’t help noticing Neal’s suspicious laser stare from down in the bullpen. Without a doubt, Neal sensed that his position was very tenuous at the moment, and Peter was afraid of what his friend might do. If Peter did take a chance and put his CI at risk during an undercover op, would the once-suicidal young fool throw caution to the wind? Would he put himself in a criminal’s crosshairs because he still had a death wish? Against his better judgment, Peter placed a call to Dr. Bozak. Unlike Neal, Peter readily admitted his fears and concerns.

At their next session, the psychiatrist boldly broached the subject head on. “We’ve been avoiding talking about the elephant in the room, Neal. Maybe it’s time that we discuss your suicide attempt while in prison.”

Neal raised his eyebrows. “So, I guess we’re finished discussing ‘anger’ ad infinitum and are moving on to bigger and better topics,” he snarked.

“Quite the contrary,” the unperturbed physician parried. “We’re still talking about the same thing. Suicide screams ‘anger’ loud and clear. I believe it was that very emotion which drove the train off the rails. I think you have a very deep anger which stems from a loss of control over your own life.”

When Neal just stared at her with narrowed eyes, she continued. “Survival is an innate human instinct. If it wasn’t part of our genes, the human race would have died out in the Stone Age. It would take a tremendously strong amount of will power—anger, if you will—to override what is part of our DNA. Somehow, Neal, you managed to marshal that power to take charge of your own fate, and surviving wasn’t part of your plan. You were seeking the ultimate control.”

Neal gave her assessment some thought before conceding, “Okay, maybe I _was_ saying, ‘fuck you—I’m out of here.’ I wasn’t hurting anybody but myself, so what did it matter?”

“The part about not hurting anybody,” Dr. Bozak mused, “may not be completely accurate. Did you ever stop to consider those you were leaving behind? We don’t exist in a vacuum, Neal. Any action, any little pebble that we toss into a placid little pond, sends concentric waves outward. Those disruptions affect other parts of the pond. There are real people who care about us living in the same body of water.”

Neal continued to look defiant, so his therapist cut the session short. “Perhaps we’ve hit a temporary wall and will not be making any progress today. Please think about what I’ve said, and we can revisit the issue next week.”

When Neal appeared before Peter just fifteen minutes later, Peter frowned. “Was there a problem, Neal?”

“Nope, just more of the same tedious nagging,” the belligerent young man snapped as he valiantly tried to tamp down an unbidden pang of guilt. “Just make sure not to pay for this session, Peter, because you weren’t getting your money’s worth tonight. Now, c’mon, let’s get some Thai take-out, my treat.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There was no next session the following week because Neal was deep undercover in an operation to take down an arms dealer. He wasn’t alone. Peter was steadfastly by his side pretending to be Neal’s nefarious partner. On the designated night, Neal and Peter had taken a small tender-craft out into Long Island Sound to rendezvous with a yacht moored off-shore. They were going to view the illegal armaments on board, then negotiate a price and work out transfer details. If all went according to plan, a SWAT team would arrive at the coordinates of the handover when it took place—hopefully on land.

Peter had taken precautions. Both he and Neal wore vests under their suits, and Peter had an almost invisible earbud in place that would keep him in contact with Jones and Diana waiting on shore. However, it all went to hell rather quickly when a second, unknown co-conspirator materialized from the bulkhead near the engine room and had sauntered aft to meet the buyers. He immediately recognized Neal and sounded the alarm.

Suddenly, other members of the ship’s crew appeared with automatic weapons in their grips. They aimed for center mass and let loose with a fusillade of lethal bullets. Luckily, Peter’s vest saved his life, but he still tumbled over the railing into the dark, cold waters of the sea. Likewise, Neal’s torso took some pounding, but an errant shot tore through his unprotected shoulder and the force pushed him backward until he, too, plummeted into the inky depths. As FBI agent and CI sank far below the surface, the evil villains sought to scuttle the bobbing tender by using their Uzis to riddle the hull with holes. It wouldn’t be very long before it, too, would go down just like Neal and Peter.

Of course, Diana and company heard every word and the ominous strafing gunfire that took place five nautical miles out in Long Island Sound.

“Go! Go! Go!” she exhorted the precautionary Coast Guard Search and Rescue team that was standing by near their helicopter. They quickly scrambled into their whirlybird as the rotors began to turn and soared off on their mission of mercy. It was a dark, cloudy night, so it would be challenging to locate two small bobbing heads in a vast black tidal basin. The aviators would utilize their powerful search beacons to locate the quickly sinking tender and mark it as ground zero. Then they would work a grid outward from that point.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hitting the cold water had a shocking effect on Peter. Nonetheless, he called on some reserve of strength and propelled himself toward the now-roiling surface. It was initially hard for him to take a deep breath because of the trauma to his chest. He was sure that a few ribs had been fractured. The only thing he could see when his head broke free was the wake from the retreating yacht and just a bit of the tender’s white bow above the waves. He quickly twirled his aching body around in a circle looking for Neal and began calling his name as loudly as he could. Almost to the point of panic when he didn’t see or hear his partner, Peter began to dive under the surface time after time. He was grouping blindly, hoping to snag a hand or an arm belonging to his CI.

Neal was far below Peter and slowly sinking deeper. Initially, he had been stunned by the wound to his shoulder and lost consciousness for a few seconds. Luckily, his body’s primitive mammalian-dive reflex had taken over. That was a natural evolutionary development which caused humans to automatically hold their breath to conserve oxygen after sudden immersions in cold water. When consciousness returned, Neal realized his predicament, but unlike Peter, he didn’t immediately struggle towards the surface and life-saving air. That was because he wasn’t alone. His ghosts hadn’t deserted him even though he had been ignoring them over the preceding weeks. Unexpectedly, Neal experienced a calming sense of peace here in this aquatic realm.

He watched in fascination as Kate’s form shimmered right in front of him, her long dark hair fanning out around her. She reminded him of an alluring mermaid. Rebecca appeared, too. She was suspended off to the side and was reaching out as well, her beautiful red hair undulating in the underwater current. Neal was sure that his mother and Ellen were somewhere close by. He found himself longing to join his otherworldly companions because he knew that his time had come—his ultimate destiny of death.

Then, all at once, Neal was distracted by a brightness that pierced his world from above. He wondered if this was that beckoning white light that people talked about after their hearts had stopped beating before they were successfully resuscitated. The drowning man was now more certain than ever that he was dying, and he was at peace with that.

However, it was never going to be that easy. Suddenly, from somewhere deep in the primordial part of his brain, a thought as penetrating as the light above him invaded his psyche. Like the proverbial bolt out of the blue, Neal’s mind sent him a very strong and clear message. He did _not_ want to die; instead, he desperately wanted to live. Like an obedient and responsive sycophant, Neal immediately stroked upward with a new resolve, pausing for just a second to look behind at those whom he was forsaking. Somehow, they had eerily vanished.

When the flailing man finally managed to break the surface, he realized that the mysterious bright light was a high-powered halogen beacon mounted on a hovering helicopter. He also heard Peter frantically calling his name. The illumination enabled the FBI agent to finally locate his missing partner, and with a few short strokes he had a gasping and sputtering Neal in his arms.

“I’ve got you, Buddy, just hang on. Help is right above us,” Peter promised.

As the chopper drifted overhead, two divers in wet suits plunged into the water and swam toward the pair. Peter made sure that Neal was the first one strapped into a sturdy harness, and while treading water, he watched nervously as a hefty winch reeled the barely-conscious man up to safety. By the time that Peter was onboard, the paramedics had their patient on a gurney minus his protective vest and were performing chest compressions. Eventually, Neal gave a strangled cough and the rescuers quickly turned his head to the side so that he could vomit streams of sea water onto the floor at their feet. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when that was accomplished and turned their attention to the wound in his shoulder.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, Neal found himself in yet another hospital ward, only this time the room was light and cheerful, unlike those in the prison. He was surrounded by visitors. Peter, Elizabeth, Jones, Diana, even Hughes were all standing around and congratulating him for surviving. When that mob thinned out, leaving only Peter and El, June and Mozzie made their appearance. The little bald man had found himself previously exiled from Neal’s life thanks to some stringent threats by Peter. Now, the protective agent was loosening the rules a bit.

“Welcome back, mon frère,” Mozzie said simply, although Neal could hear the unspoken relief and affection behind the heartfelt words. It was now quite evident to Neal that he had been missed by yet another person who cared deeply about him. How could Neal have ever imagined that he was an island?

Later that week, with his arm in a sling, Neal walked into Dr. Bozak’s office.

“My goodness, Neal, you are a sight for sore eyes,” she said sincerely. “How’s the shoulder?”

“It’s fine,” he reassured her as he made himself comfortable in his usual chair. “Doctor, I’m really fine in a lot of ways. I’m pretty sure that I’ve got my head together now, and I want to thank you for making that happen.”

The psychiatrist smiled. “I didn’t accomplish that breakthrough, Neal. You did it yourself. I just provided the occasional prodding to help you get the job done, although I’m sure you considered it nagging.”

Neal looked embarrassed. “I’m certainly not the poster boy for mental health, and I’ve been a royal pain in the ass. I’m definitely not a success story that you can write up in one of your professional journals, but kudos to you, Doc, for putting up with all my crap.”

“Oh, my dear boy, you are so very wrong. You _are_ a success story,” the psychiatrist firmly stated. “Of course, there’s much more for you to explore, but I feel certain that you are capable of doing that on your own.”

“So, are you saying that you feel confident enough to stop the sessions?” Neal asked warily.

“The question is, do you?” she responded. “We can certainly stop if you wish. Can you reassure me that you now truly believe you can handle your problems in a different manner?”

When Neal simply nodded, she continued. “Please rest assured that if you ever feel the need to follow up at any time, my door will always be open.”

“That’s good to know,” Neal answered sincerely.

“Well then, let me send you on your way, young man. Good luck and God speed.”

Peter was surprised when Neal suddenly appeared in the waiting room.

“I’ve been officially discharged, Peter. Hallelujah! I’ve been healed,” he exclaimed cheekily. “Now, let’s celebrate. We’ll grab Elizabeth and get some dinner at a fancy restaurant that labels pot roast as ‘boeuf bourguignon’ on its outrageously pricy menu.”

And that’s exactly what they did, complete with champagne and toasts. Before Neal retired to bed that night, he approached Peter in the kitchen.

“Peter, do you think it’s possible for me to go back to my loft at June’s? She told me it’s just the way I left it before I was carted off to prison. I really want my old life back and I don’t think I need you to babysit me anymore. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll miss you, Buddy,” Peter said sincerely.

“Yeah, just like you’d miss an itchy rash,” Neal teased.

Suddenly, Peter was crushing Neal to his chest, although a little clumsily since the injured man’s bent arm in the sling got in the way.

“Maybe I misspoke,” Peter whispered. “I did miss you for a long while, Neal, but now that you’re back, I won’t have to anymore. Welcome home!”


End file.
